Dead Girl Running (Cape Charade #1)(80)

She low-crawled to the pickup and took cover under it.

Silence.

Where was Birdie? That was her scream, Kellen knew.

Who was shooting?

Who was capable of disabling the communications network?

The same guy who had fixed the last outage. Mitch. Mitch was working for the Librarian.

She unsnapped her side holster, click-released the safety on her pistol, slid it back in place.

What had he done to Birdie? She was hurt, maybe dying. She needed help, and only Kellen could get it for her.

“Mitch, this is stupid.” Kellen spoke calmly, persuasively, while with all her stealth, she slid along the floor, keeping well under the protection of the vehicle, moving from her current position to one closer to the back of the shop, trying to figure out a strategy. A tool chest stood there, great for defensive positioning. Lots of metal, lots of tools inside. On wheels, but nobody ever moved a filled tool chest easily. “This can’t end well for you.”

From the back wall, she heard Mitch’s soft laugh. “No, Captain, it can’t end well for you. I’ve got orders to eliminate you. You know too much. You see too much.” Reflectively, he added, “I did say you would be a problem.”

He walked forward, his boots smacking the concrete and echoing around the steel-frame structure. She knew without looking he had his firearm out, grasped in both hands, pointed at the pickup. She also knew where he was headed—for the hydraulic lift controls. All he had to do was raise that vehicle and she would be revealed. The man was a warrior, trained by the US Army; a Kevlar vest wasn’t going to save her.

But she was a warrior, too, trained by the same fighting force, and she wouldn’t die here with so much undone, so much of her past life to reveal and so much of her future to live. Beneath her, metal plates covered the old, no-longer-in-use grease pit. Painstakingly, she dragged one aside, careful to make only the barest of noises.

He heard, of course. She’d meant him to. “Climbing in there’s not going to save you.” He sounded so smugly superior. “What are you thinking, Captain?”

She was thinking that for one vital second after he activated the lift and started lifting the vehicle, he’d be looking down at the pit instead of up at the truck. She reached up into the body of the pickup and slid her right elbow around the drive train. She braced both feet on the rear axel and pulled herself up flat against the undercarriage.

He found the controls.

With a high metallic moan, the lift started up, slowly, dragging power from the generator.

Two feet.

With her left hand, she fumbled for her pistol. She was a good shot—with her right hand. But the pickup faced into the garage and the controls were on the right wall. No choice.

Four feet.

She would do what she had to do. Shoot with her left hand. Make each shot count. She held herself up against the vehicle and perfectly still. She saw Mitch’s feet, legs, waist. He walked toward the grease pit, his pistol and his gaze pointed down. Like her, he would be wearing a Kevlar vest. So—his belly and his head: her targets. She swung her weight onto her right elbow. Aimed at his abdomen.

Six feet.

Her motion caught his attention. He looked up, realized he’d been suckered, lifted his pistol.

Kellen shot. Missed. Damn that left hand!

Seven feet.

At its full extension, the lift ground to a halt.

She was exposed, hanging above him like a pi?ata.

He aimed.

She shot again. Blew a hole in his thigh.

His shot went wide. He screamed in agony, crumpled to his knee.

She shot, hit his chest.

The impact caught him square on the Kevlar vest, knocking him onto his back. In one smooth motion, he rolled and flipped, raised furious red-rimmed eyes to her, supported his gun hand with his other hand and aimed.

She prepared to drop, knowing she could never outrun a bullet shot by a master marksman.

From above, something large and square slammed down on his head, knocking him flat. Knocking him unconscious.

What? A cardboard box. He’d been hit by a cardboard box. Car manuals spilled out, dozens of them, thick, heavy, leather and paper and weight.

From the loft above, Birdie said, “Take that, you bastard.” Her voice was no more than a croak.

Kellen stashed her pistol, supported herself with both hands and swung her feet down. She landed flat-footed and ready to fight.

Mitch was unmoving, a pool of blood beneath his thigh.

With her pistol in her right hand and her left hand supporting her aim, she approached him.

None of her guys should ever be underestimated.

Still in that hoarse voice, Birdie said, “The box was full of old car manuals. Probably weighed forty pounds. He’s not getting up.”

With her foot, Kellen pushed the box off Mitch’s back.

His neck was crooked sideways.

Kellen felt for his carotid artery.

No pulse.

“You broke his neck.” Kellen looked up at Birdie.

“Good for me.” Birdie used the handrail to lower herself to the loft’s metal mesh floor. “Because he damned near killed me.”

A drop of blood splatted on the floor beside Kellen.

The right side of Birdie’s face was split open, bruised and shiny like a ripe eggplant.

Kellen holstered her pistol, grabbed the first aid kit off the wall and ran up the stairs. She knelt beside Birdie. “What did he do?”